


come on baby, don't you worry worry

by ladymarvell



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymarvell/pseuds/ladymarvell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the ot3 prompt floating around tumblr.</p><p>A cuts their finger while preparing dinner, B panics and wants to go to the hospital, C calms B down and deals with A’s injury</p>
            </blockquote>





	come on baby, don't you worry worry

It took all of two seconds for Bellamy to see the blood on Wells' hand, blood dripping down his fingers onto the kitchen counter top before he freaked out. 

"Clarke!" Bellamy shouted as he grabbed one and then two kitchen towels to wrap around Wells' hand. "Apply pressure!" He directed Wells before he popped his head out of the kitchen to call out for Clarke again.

"Clarke! It's an emergency!" 

Clarke's studio door banged open with a force that caused it to hit the wall behind it and the rattle back. The sound was familiar. Clarke was always forgetting that the cheap wood used to build their apartment was not the heavy oak doors in her parents’ house. The sound of Clarke’s bare feet pattering against the tiled floor as she rushed to the kitchen echoed in the air, accompanied by her cursing when in her rush, she tripped over the cat. 

"Goddammit, Heph, move!" 

Clarke arrived in the kitchen with a huff. She was wearing the painting smock Wells got her for her birthday after she had ruined three good blouses. Only it seemed to only half- solve the problem. The front of Clarke’s shirt was paint-free but nowhere else seemed to be safe from her artistic frenzy. She had swirls of green on her jeans and orange spots on her elbows. Her hands were stained blue. Her hair was mostly tied back but she had a few curls fall loose and they were sprinkled with paint chips and like fanned curtains perfectly framed her face which was quite flushed with her rush to the supposed emergency. With a survey of the room, Clarke’s eyes fell on Wells' hand, wrapped in bloody kitchen towels.

Her first thought was, _oh no not the Indra Woods kitchen towels_ , because she ordered them with a set. With both Wells and Bellamy not home and after her four glass of wine, the night she made the order was slightly hazed around the edges. Clarke does remember the cute home shopping network lady saying what a deal it was at least twelve times. Eventually the temptation proved to be too much and Clarke caved. It wasn’t her fault, not really. The cute home shopping network lady had such brown eyes and Clarke’s credit card was right there. But now, Clarke owned a 15-piece set of kitschy kitchen towels and owed two more monthly payments of 17.99. So there’s that. 

The following thought in her head was the more appropriate, _oh my god! What happened_?

"Oh my god, what happened!?"

"I was slicing the carrots for dinner. My hand slipped." Wells shrugged. "It's not that big of a deal."

Bellamy, indigent at the suggestion that Wells getting hurt is anything less than a big fucking deal, protested immediately.

"You could have lost a finger!" Wells reacted quite expectedly by rolling his eyes at Bellamy's dramatic declarations. "I happen to like all your fingers exactly where they are."

"I agree." Clarke added as if there was some kind of voting to be done on the state of Wells' fingers, which were mostly likely still on his hand. "Let's take a closer look." Clarke said unwrapping Wells' hand. With a closer inspection, it seemed that both Wells and his hand were going to be just fine.

"Well, Wells,” Clarke started but then stopped to laugh at her own joke because someone had to. Wells never thought it was funny. And at this particular moment, Bellamy was too busy working himself into a tizzy to be amused by a joke that Clarke had already made approximately several times in the last three months. "You definitely split the skin. It looks pretty deep but I don’t think you need stitches. I’ll wrap it up for you. Wash your hands while I'll get the first aid kit." 

Wells moved over to the sink to wash his hands while Bellamy watched and silently listened to Clarke release a flurry of expletives as she tripped over the cat again on her way back to the kitchen.

Clarke applied a generous amount of Neosporin and wrapped Wells' hand in gauze, making sure to wrap it tight but not too tight.

"I think we should call a doctor." Bellamy suggested as Clarke taped the gauze in place. “Just to make sure about the stitches.” Both Wells and Clarke looked at Bellamy with matching expressions of exasperation. Bellamy didn't seem to react to the silent expressions of no. As if Bellamy having his arms crossed and a firm pout on his face repelled them.

"We don't need a doctor," Wells insisted "we have Clarke."

"No. A real doctor. One who didn't drop out of med school." While Wells looked about to insist that he didn’t need a doctor again, Clarke spoke up and beat him to the response.

"Bellamy, Wells will be fine. I promise." Bellamy looked about to protest when Clarke added, “But if it makes you feel better, I can call my mom. I'm sure she wouldn't mind making a house call." Bellamy could practically hear the smugness dripping in Clarke’s voice, knowing she had won the argument already. No stubbornness was worth calling up Abby Griffin. Bellamy was still recovering from Thanksgiving.

"Ahh no. No that's fine, I trust your judgement, Clarke." Bellamy grabbed a clean knife and began to finish cutting the carrots as Clarke trailed kisses over Wells' hand and Wells smothered his laugh in her neck.


End file.
